


heroes come back

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Naruto, Robin (Comics), Young Justice (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Child Neglect, Gen, Other, Past Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke, Reincarnation, Sasuke has A LOT of unresolved issues, Tim Drake-centric, Uchiha Sasuke-centric, and probably some undiscoverd homosexuality, he was forgiven way too quickly don't tell me sasuke doesn't have any trauma because of him, or rather, past one sided naruto/sasuke, tim hates scarecrow and ra's al ghul because they remind him of orochimaru, tim is confusing to people, yo he straight up threatens batman in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26418454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sasuke Uchiha is reborn as Timothy Drake
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent
Comments: 55
Kudos: 631
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You know what. I don't even know what this is.

Tim’s parents lasted through a week of his night terrors before hiring a child psychologist. 

“Witnessing what your son did at such a young age can be incredibly traumatizing.” The portly man explained slowly, Tim by his feet and fiddling with the soft, rounded edge blocks. 

Because apparently sharp corners were not encouraged within the ‘safe space’ crafted by his therapist. So that meant foam mats that Tim’s little socked feet sunk into slightly. Cloth dolls with cotton stuffing that couldn’t bruise for shit no matter how hard you threw them. Toys that were stored in cloth woven baskets.

Even the furniture was soft with bean bag chairs and leather couch cushions littering the room.

“When children encounter a situation like this, they may not be able to fully process what it is they’ve witnessed or experienced-”

Tim shifted his attention to the gummy toys, probably meant for the chubby fists of children still struggling with their hand-eye coordination.

“-To the point where it puts the child in a state of delusion, confusion, unable to comprehend that the world may not be a safe place, that _they_ may not be safe.”

Tim’s mother crouched down by his side, the soft fabric of her skirt half-covering Tim like a blanket as she lifted him up by his armpits and to her arms. Tim could hear the low murmuring tones of his father and therapist making rough appointment schedules, discussing things like ‘progress’ and ‘support’.

Tim clenched a lock of his mother’s hair into his small fist.

“Oh, Timothy…” His mother whispered against his forehead, he could feel her form slouch slightly over him, the days of no-sleep finally catching up with them. 

Him and her.

Tim used to be able to go days without sleep. Either through chemical means or his own body’s internal clock wired for short bursts of rest.

But not anymore.

Nothing was really much the same anymore.

Not his sleep, or his body, hair, or eyes.

Not his parents, his friends, or his home.

Not even his name.

 _Timothy_.

That was his new name. Gift wrapped and presented together along with his new life.

Sasuke thought briefly back to the sight of two acrobats crumpled out on the floor of a circus, their blood and tears staining the ground. Their son’s screams still echoing in his ears. 

Tim screwed his eyes shut, burying his face into the soft neck of his mother, mouth catching on her necklace as his nose filled with the scent of flowery perfume.

Sasuke clenched his jaw, milk teeth digging into his soft lip as he tried his best to rid the image of a man with red eyes, standing over the corpses of his parents. His ears ringing with his own screams of terror.

\----

Timothy Jackson Drake was born two weeks early, late at night during a thunderstorm. A sharp contrast to Sasuke’s birth. 

In the morning and directly on time, to the hour that the family doctor had predicted. 

Tim was still unsure about whether that was just by chance or if medical-nins had some formula or jutsu worked out for timing labor.

Tim didn’t think so. 

Both Sakura and Karin had been surprised at the sudden appearance of Sarada, to the point that they’d scrambled for all the proper supplies, going as far as to even forget to banish Sasuke from the room when the time came.

Not that he’d been much help, his body frozen as he listened to Sakura’s pained grunts, the metallic smell of blood filling the air and his nose. All broken by the sounds of Sarada’s cries.

Sarada. 

Gone. Her along with her mother. 

Sasuke wondered if they’d receive the news immediately. He’d died in the mountains in the dead of winter. Naruto would probably send teams out the minute Sasuke didn’t check in, but it’d be months before they could bring his body back to be laid down beside all his kin. 

He’d be devastated. Probably find some way to blame himself when it, like everything, had been Sasuke’s fault.

An injury he hadn’t let heal long enough, the slow growth of a fever he hadn’t caught. The neglect towards his medical supplies. His stubbornness in maintaining people at a distance, even his family.

His family who would move on. Sakura was strong, raising their daughter with all the careful attention and love that Sasuke wished he was capable of. Sarada took more after her than she did him. Something he was always quietly grateful for.

Even if they crumbled, buckled under his demise- Sasuke knew they were in good hands. Naruto would care for them. Kind and always willing to extend a hand no matter how many times he may get bitten.

It’s a hand that Sasuke will never get extended to him again.

\----

Tim was not a social child.

 _Shy_ , his mother always called him. In the same soft and lightly teasing way that Mikoto always did.

But that was where their similarities ended. 

Mikoto was a housewife through and through. Though her hands were rough with all the experience of a former career-ninja, she always knew exactly how to be gentle when handling Sasuke. Gripping his little hand in the market, cleaning his scrapes and cuts with the fragility of a butterfly.

But not Janet. Janet was busy. Because Janet worked.

Long hours at a computer in the little office of their apartment alongside her husband. Because the two of them were partners in more than just the romantic sense.

Business partners.

And the thing about high stakes, resource flowing entrepreneurship- it didn’t leave much time for your son.

Sure there were the ‘playdates’ Tim occasionally attended with the children of steel manufacturers, financers, and executives. But to Tim they always felt too much like those multi-clan meetings with them using their children’s playtime as their buffer.

Not that Tim had a problem with that. He’d spent one too many times playing with Hinata Hyuuga’s kendama to hold anything against adults trying to get one over each other and strategize for political, financial, or social gain.

Tim even thought he was doing his parents a favor by behaving himself, tucking his feet under his thighs and quietly playing beside a shipping manager’s son who was trying to stuff a lego up his nose. All while their parents argued, negotiated, and signed million dollar contracts in the next room.

Tim had stolen the pages of one off his father’s desk once, sitting down beside the TV and working out the words on it. It’s something he was still disapproving of. 

Neither Sasuke or Itachi had _ever_ been able to get their hands on any of their father’s sensitive documents, especially not of the ones with open cases going on in the village. For clan children it was a game, trying to sneak your ninja-parents’ things without them noticing. Stealing sweets before dinner. Slipping into rooms that were sealed closed.

Tim had been able to steal and read several pieces of sensitive material belonging to his parents and return them without even raising the slightest shred of suspicion.

Tim’s not sure why that bothers him so much. Fugaku had never showered him in praise or adoration for simply existing and neither did Jack. In many ways both his fathers did the bare minimum with him.

Only this time there was no Itachi to fill in the gaps. For a moment, Tim’s heart aches.

It sings with such desperate loneliness and yearning he’s nearly sick on what’s surely a very expensive rug. 

“Hey,” the blonde boy with the chubby face of an Akimichi nudges Tim, “wanna go eat cake?”

Tim stares at him for a moment, his eyes wet with unshed tears because he has as much control over his emotions as..well...a child.

“Okay.”

The two of them toddle to the kitchen and beg the boy’s nursemaid for slices of cake. It only half works. They get a single slice and two child sized forks.

Tim is more than content to let the other boy have most of his share.

He was never particularly fond of sweets.

\----

Tim’s parents start signing contracts worth more money than the entire compound earned in a year. 

They start working more hours.

They start working in an actual office space.

They move into a larger house.

They start assigning people to look after him.

Sasuke doesn’t know what to do.

\----

Ninja had only three loyalties. Village. Family. Friends.

All were in order of importance. All were unanimously agreed upon, silently or otherwise. There was no village asking him to swear fealty. No dark puppetmaster in the shadows that required exposing. No family to avenge. No person to hunt down. No God to kill.

No one to protect.

Sasuke is lost.

Lost in the same way he’d been months after Itachi’s death. Mind fuzzy and unable to make connections like he’d suffered a concussion. 

No home. No friends. No family. No purpose. It’d been the one time he’d felt he’d truly understood loneliness. True loneliness.

Like a pitaya, that’s had everything that mattered scooped out of it and the rest was just discarded. 

In that time Sasuke had returned to the familiar ground of his burning anger. His righteous need for revenge. 

On the village, then the Kages, then the ninja world as a whole. 

An injustice had been committed against him and someone had needed to pay.

There is no conquest for Sasuke to stand behind any longer. 

All he is is a little boy. Powerless, weak, and small. All the things he swore to himself he’d never be again.

Damaged goods.

That lasts all the way up until he watches the mayor get saved on live TV alongside millions of other Gothamites. 

Tim watches a man dressed in black tactical armor and a bastardized version of a black ops mask skirt away a frightened man that Tim knew for an absolute fact was corrupt enough to not deserve it.

Batman.

Tim knew about him, recognized him even; as the figure that descended that day at Haly’s Circus. But he was too caught up in the sudden panic and labored breathing at the startlingly familiar sight of a slain couple to take note. It’s something he beat himself up about later that night when his parents put him to bed.

There’s fluidity in his movements, precision in his actions that immediately pegs him as someone who’s had rigorous training. Jonin level. Easily.

Tim watches. Watches in stupefaction as he stops a high level threat (one that Tim and every citizen was made aware of only through a cable broadcast network). Watches as he grapples away without a moment spared beyond his use.

Tim is speechless.

\----

Tim knows about heroes, knows all about Superman, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman, and the rest of the JLA.

He knows that they’re the ‘pillars of justice’, the ‘champions of mankind against the unknown and oppressive forces on earth and beyond’. 

Tim knows because he’s watched all the commercials about them and owns all their action figures (because every children’s meal from the fast food vendors included them and sometimes Tim’s parents just didn’t have time to make him dinner). 

But mostly he knows about them because he has handwritten files on each of them with all the information he’s been able to gather listed on several pieces of computer paper he squirreled away from his parent’s office supply closet. 

_Why?_

_There’s no point. Who is the information going to get reported to- there’s no intel to deliver-_

Batman’s is short. A single page with a few paragraphs of analysis. Most is dismissing the outlandish and wild theories Tim’s managed to gather by surfing the internet on his father’s computer.

Tim’s files are as meticulous and diligent as the mission reports he used to turn in. It’s better to have a paper trail, something physical to tie specific information to someone. 

In Konohagakure, it was always paperwork that caught 85% of the traitors (It’s what would’ve stopped Danzo if-).

Not that Sasuke would be able to do something if it turned out someone like Superman wasn’t actually the ‘boyscout’ the media wrote him out to be. 

A decent amount of media were pro-superman while the anti-superman media tended to be owned in full or part by one Alexander Luthor.

But the Justice League was its own organization, that had its own set of guidelines that held its members accountable.

Similar to the Shinobi Court System Fugaku occasionally testified in. 

Batman was a figure staunchly situated in Gotham. As the sky was blue and grass was green- Gotham belonged to Batman. 

Gotham City was one of the few cities that Superman didn’t do flyovers on, out of his respect for his comrade if Tim’s research was to be believed. 

It’s information that took longer than he’d like to admit to gather.

Tim was a field ninja, his strengths lay in performing active fieldwork. As much as he tried to be the spymaster for the village, Jiraiya had left a great legacy to live up to. One he knew he still fell short of at times.

And Gotham...it was no Konoha. 

Konoha was not perfect, for a time Tim’s loyalty had been...absent.

But Gotham City was every dirty, messy, maggot infested problem the village had ever faced turned up to the max.

Kirigakure was among the worst of the hidden villages, poverty and crime were rampant. Corruption was just another day there. Seeing scenes like the ones Sasuke had witnessed in Wave were just all too common in a place like that. 

Gotham’s problems were deeper, infested into it’s very soil. Tim was sure that even the water in the harbor was sour with infestation.

Tim had the fortune of good birth. Parents that were already in good standing clawing their way up to the golden pedestals of the elite of the city. 

The wealth disparity had disgusted Tim at first. 

Because never, not in Konoha would people be forced on the streets while Clans stayed locked away in their compounds. The money shinobi made by risking their lives outside of the village- it’s entire purpose was in _service_ of the village. 

Killing the people within served no purpose but to harm the entire system as a whole. It’s something the five great shinobi nations witnessed at Kirigakure’s inability to pull itself out of their economic pit (the absence of a workforce). It’s something Konohagakure witnessed at the death of the Uchiha clan (a recession that cost several civilian and ninja clans their savings along with a resurgence of crime with the absence of the military police force).

Gotham is nothing but a city sitting on a blanket of black tar, sucking it and all it’s people in.

Yet.

Tim’s eyes washed over the newspaper cut outs, interviews with people saved by Batman. The way that children in his playgroup always loudly demanded to be ‘Batman’.

People followed Batman, believed in him. With all the reverence and faith that someone would give a Kage.

It’s…

Not something Tim could understand. Kage’s were a beacon, a pillar of strength that held up all their people.

The fourth with his dignity. The fifth with her strength. The sixth with his power. The seventh with his will.

Sasuke...didn’t have that. He didn’t have the charisma, the ability to back up his words.

It’s actions that proved the validity of every Kage that had ever been. 

And Sasuke fell short in that. 

Even with all his attempts at redemption he knew, deep inside- there was still the part of him that turned his back on a village for power.

Tim curled tightly around the soft fleece of his blankets, tucking his head into his pillow as he stared at the clipping on his nightstand.

A black and white print of the brand new installation of the aptly named ‘Bat-Signal’ on the roof of the Gotham Police Department. 

Gotham’s beacon. 

Tim closes his eyes and thinks of a beacon with hair like the sun and a smile that made his heart ache.

\----

Timothy is a creature of obsession.

It is not something that goes away the older he grows.

In many ways, he’s pretty sure he’s utterly incapable of not being sucked into hyper focusing on one thing.

It’s how he ends up crouched on rooftops in the middle of the night, wrapped in a puffer jacket with a digital camera in his hands.

It takes every bit of skill and muscle memory to be able to scale the residential areas of Gotham and cross-reference the maps he’s drawn of Batman’s broken down patrol route.

It bothers him that he was able. Patrol routes should not be predictable; they should be separated by quadrant and divided based on seniority, skill level, and welfare needed in the area. 

Logically, Batman should altogether avoid areas with households containing an average income of more than $50K and focus on the more impoverished areas where crime is expected to be higher, more violent, and lethal.

But Batman served _all_ of Gotham, and no one got skipped. Which meant that Tim spent most of his nights settling into barely detectable grooves and waiting before running down a firescape and catching a cab before proceeding to do it all over again.

It was exhausting work for a body so small and still growing. 

Tim could only be thankful that no one in Gotham wondered what a little boy was doing out by himself. In Metropolis it got you _all_ kinds of looks and resulted in hiding in dumpsters from police who were called by ‘concerned citizens’. 

Tim would call them _something else_. But he supposed it was just a cultural difference.

This was what he got for ditching school and taking a day trip to Metropolis in an effort to thicken his Superman folder. At least no one on the train home had given him much of a second look.

But still. Ditching school. Is that what Tim had become?

What was it Jack would call him?

A degenerate?

Yeah that sounds about right. 

Tim could still hear the bellowed reprimands of a certain academy teacher still ringing in his ear every time he caught a student for truancy.

Thankfully Tim’s private school didn’t look into things like that. More concerned with the check Jack and Janet wrote them every month than whether Tim’s claims of being sick with the flu in his dorm room were true.

But he supposed that was life. 

A pair of dark shadows passed over the rooftop nearby and Tim buckled down tighter into the crack he shoved himself in, raising his camera to his face and feeling the button click under his finger.

Tim’s viewfinder locked on the pair leaping onto another roof. The smaller one flipping 1..2..3….4.

Tim’s finger froze.

\----

Batman’s file gets another few pages written in.

\----

Robin disappears and Nightwing emerges.

Tim starts a new file.

\----

A new Robin appears and Batman’s file gets even more pages added in.

\----

The second Robin disappears and Batman begins behaving erratically.

Tim half expects for the Justice League to pull him off their roster and put him into Psych Eval as per protocol in the Anbu handbook.

Batman breaks three arms and one nose in a purse robbery and lands someone in the hospital on a ventilator over a gram of cocaine.

Tim realizes that’s not going to happen.

\----

Tim was a silent observer. 

A loner, as some of his teachers might note in his report card. 

_Unwilling to reach out to others. Private. Does not engage with his classmates._

In another life such critiques would earn him remedial bookwork on ‘Teamwork in a 3-Man Squad’. 

In this life it earns him a recommendation to the guidance counselor. 

It takes Tim two weeks to get the person behind the desk to believe he’s fine, he’s just ‘shy’. 

It takes four days to find a group of boys in his English class to eat with at lunch to solidify that claim. 

It takes six hours to find Dick Grayson’s address. All seven of them. The three in Gotham. Three in Bludhaven. And the one in San Francisco.

It costs $15.75 to fill up his bus pass to visit each of the locations nearby only to find them vacant. 

It costs $350 (roundtrip) for the plane ticket and another $175 to the Gotham TSA agent to shut up about his age.

It’s $80 dollars for the night at a hotel that won’t ask questions.

And it ends up costing absolutely nothing for Tim to walk next door and knock on the door when he comes home empty handed.

\----

“You need a Robin.”

Tim explains it simply. Concisely. 

If that doesn’t work he has graphs in his backpack. Shikamaru always said that ‘thick-headed’ people needed visual material to supplement his words.

Tim’s pretty sure he was just insulting people in general but it was better than nothing.

“No.”

“Yes.” Tim replies. If Batman thought he could outmatch Tim he was dead wrong. Tim has been told he was the ‘most stubborn fucking bastard I ever met-’.

Of course Naruto had been drunk when he said that but the point stood.

Batman glared down at him, using every inch of his height to his advantage to loom over Tim. Tim craned his neck back but held his gaze, lips pursed down into the same sour look Janet tried to smooth away with her fingers whenever she returned for the holidays.

“Leave.”

“No.” Tim stepped closer, his tiny shoes almost comical beside Batman’s thick soled boots. Tim’s chin nearly brushed against Batman’s armor coated abdomen, his blue eyes narrowed on the whites of the cowl.

Tim’s mouth twitched at the sight.

_‘Take off the mask, bastard! I’m talking to you’_

“Take off the mask, I’m talking to you.” Sasuke says, brows deepening into a furrow.

The cowl twitched with movement, mouth moving in displeasure.

“No.”

_‘I’m not looking to talk to Anbu, I’m talking to you!’_

“I’m not talking to Batman, I’m talking to you.”

The cowl comes off, but the expression on Bruce Wayne’s face is no less forgiving.

“Whatever you came here to say, you’re wasting your time. Dick already filled Alfred in.”

Tim tries to not let the surprise show on his face. Their meeting had gone pretty poorly and resulted in Tim returning to Gotham empty handed. 

Which made sense. Sasuke wasn’t the best speaker and even less so when talking to people blinded by anger and hurt.

He hadn't thought the other man would remain unblinded by his anger long enough to call.

“I won’t make you Robin.” The words are spoken with a deep enunciation, almost a growl.

Tim stared.

“I don’t care.”

Bruce’s brow twitched. To the untrained eye it would’ve slipped past. But Tim always had good eyes.

“Batman belongs to Gotham,” Tim continued. “He is not _yours_.”

_‘A Kage protects the village and their people! That’s why they have to be the strongest shinobi!’_

“You can be angry all you want but you _don’t_ get to make Batman look bad.”

_‘A Kage needs to stand up for what’s right! For what’s just!’_

“I don’t get to be Robin, fine. But you don’t get to be Batman, either if that’s the case.”

Bruce stared at him, expression incomprehensible.

“Are you saying _you’ll_ take the cape away from me?”

The way he says it is neutral, zero indication of intent. But Tim can read the slightest lilt when addressing him, intended to be mocking. He wants to goad Tim. Wants him to prove that he’s nothing but an emotional, over-invested kid.

Tim calls his bluff.

“If I don’t call and cancel my delivery of a package to the GCPD, Gotham News Network, and Gotham Globe by midnight tonight, all of Gotham will know who you are by morning.”

Tim’s cellphone is in his hand, and has been the whole time. Bruce’s eyes drift down to it. 

Tim can see the moment he realizes Tim means business.

Tim has seen what a world imposed with someone else’s vision of justice and peace would look like. He knows exactly what Batman is capable of, has studied and documented enough to know him as intimately as Tim knew anyone.

“I would rather see Batman die than see him become what you are becoming.”

Tim knows all too well what grief can do to a person. What it can push them to do.

He thinks of a boy watching someone he loves die and trying to make the world pay for it. He thinks of his family rubbed raw and hurt, being pushed to their breaking point and being slaughtered like _animals_ over a fight they were just pawns in.

Tim straightened his back, glaring up at Bruce. 

He knows what men who have been hurt and traumatized are capable of. 

Little boys who train until their bones break, who attack and betray their home all for the gratification of revenge. 

Gotham is delightfully imperfect, just short of good in every single way. 

It’s exactly the place Sasuke belongs with it’s mean people, drooping buildings, smog, and all it’s pollution.

There is nowhere else in the world for him.

Bruce stares at him, eyes locking onto every wrinkles, hair, and spec of dirt on Tim’s face.

“Understood. Robin.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim Drake through the perspective of others

Timothy Jackson Drake was an odd child.

Then again, Alfred wasn’t sure exactly how one was supposed to go about categorizing a young boy, who from a very young age, followed, categorized and essentially stalked his ward for years, even discovering his secret of being Batman.

It was an unusual reaction, then again the same could be said about his ward-training up and studying on how to become a vigilante from an age where most boys were concerned about young ladies.

Timothy was...startlingly self sufficient.

It’s something he and Bruce realized one day into Timothy’s training when the other boy came to them with a manila folder and a handwritten meal plan with all the reasoning and analysis of a sports nutritionist.

Alfred watched, silently, as Bruce slowly worked his way through the moderately thick file the young boy had dropped off to them before leaving for school (something Alfred internally disapproved of because he’d been under the assumption the boy’s parents at least chartered a driver for him).

Allfred could see copies of his most recent x-rays (body and dental), bloodwork, a list of allergies, birth certificate, school transcript, volunteer hours, and two letters of recommendation from his homeroom teacher and the sensei of a dojo located in the Gotham Park Plaza Shopping Center.

Alfred raised a brow at the latter and wondered what the young boy had told them in order to attain those.

Bruce seemed to be of the same alignment given the slightest quirk of his brows when he picked up both letters, printed on a thick cardstock stationery.

It’s the first... emotion other than grief and anger that Alfred’s seen from his ward in weeks. 

Timothy’s file got shuffled around, one page containing a photo of him from his school identification card printed along with the names and numbers of his pediatrician and current therapist.

“May I say that young Timothy is very,” Alfred paused, rethinking his wording for a moment before continuing, “ _ thorough _ .”

He’s sure his enunciation will carry the full depth of his meaning to his ward. He was certain that when young Richard had phoned him in the middle of the night he’d been simply exaggerated about the ‘bug-eyed little stalker baby’ that was making his way to them as he spoke. 

Alfred, personally, thought that was a rather uncharitable description of young Timothy. The boy was small and skinny, yes, but nothing a few hearty meals couldn’t fix. As with all the other children that had made the manor their home.

Yet, Alfred couldn’t help but feel that Timothy differed from Richard and the late master Jason.

Bruce let out a light sound, clicking from deep in his throat. It’s one that Alfred recognizes as one of astonishment that he used to make when he was a young boy. Getting into mischief and genuinely surprised when he got into trouble.

Alfred couldn’t help but step closer to his ward’s side.

An armor covered fist was gripping an industrially stapled contract hard enough to wrinkle the paper. A quick glance over the bulleted points were enough to bring the slightest smile of amusement to his lips.

“My, my.” He couldn’t help but, dare he say, chortle.

A list of specific and thought out duties and obligations for one, Bruce Wayne, Alias:Batman, included a set curfew, minimum hours to sleep, minimum calories to be consumed per day, and a cap on the weekly imbibing of alcohol. 

“He  _ cannot  _ be serious.” Bruce murmured lowly, brow furrowing as he read down the list in front of him, brows rising up as he skimmed through the pages and saw an itinerary from the current date up until the next year.

“I believe he may.” Alfred offered, eyes flashing in pleasure as he saw the signed and dated line of ‘Timothy Jackson Drake’ sitting nicely under a blank witness line and another delicately labeled ‘Bruce Thomas Wayne’.

Bruce’s lips turned down in displeasure, brows furrowed in a particularly displeased expression.

“You think he wants me to sign this?”

_ ‘No, Master Bruce’ _ Alfred couldn’t help but think, _ ‘I would think he would want one to frame it’. _

Of course Alfred doesn’t say any of that.

“I appears to be that way, Sir.”

Bruce frowned, eyes narrowed on the sheet in front of him like it was another one of his cases, like it was an unfavorable business proposal.

“He’s testing me.” He finally remarked, sitting up in his lumbar supporting chair. “He’s trying to see whether I’m reasonable, willing to work together in a partnership like we agreed- or if I’ll be stubborn, remain steadfast in my ways.”

Alfred isn’t sure whether a ruse would be necessary to see which of those statements held true.

“He must know he has the high ground in the negotiations, making the submission of a written agreement illogical-”

_ ‘Or’  _ Alfred thought  _ ‘A physical binding of your word’. _

Afterall he couldn’t see much wrong with the idea of his ward getting a full night’s rest or an adequate meal.

Drifting back, Alfred began cleaning up debris left from both the young masters’ most recent interaction, listening to the mumblings of his ward as he slowly read through page after page of the printed contract.

Yes, Alfred thought to himself, Master Timothy was most unlike any of his previous charges.

\----

Dick really wasn’t sure what to make of the little kid that had banged on his apartment door early in the morning one fine San Francisco day. 

His knee gut reaction had been to grab him by the scruff and drag him into his home once he started talking about things he didn’t understand and stuff he shouldn’t know.

Dick would admit that maybe he’d jumped the gun a bit, roughing the kid up and grabbing him a little too tightly. While no complaint had been raised he couldn’t help but feel the sure trickle of guilt when he spotted a halfway healed handprint bruise on his wrist during a warm-up almost a week later.

Because Bruce was taking the kid on.

Wasn’t that something?

It’s something that had pushed Dick into action, enough to make his way back to one of his Bludhaven apartments and swing by the cave when he was sure Bruce wouldn’t be there. 

He stumbles across the kid doing katas, gentle and steady and trying to extend his little limbs to the furthest they could go. All with the patience Jason had lacked and all the focus Dick had missed.    
Dick watches him for several minutes, appreciating the smooth descents into each position and careful acrobatics of each movement. 

It’s a control that spoke highly of practice. 

Which made sense, Dick’s scan of the kid’s newly uploaded files on the flight to Gotham had made a clear point to mention the stellar recommendation of some Mall budget sensei. The kid obviously picked up every lesson like a sponge, his movements making it look more like a ritual than a routine. 

Dick almost felt bad about breaking his focus.

“Hey, Timmy!”

Dick jumped the railing, landing on his heels and rolling swiftly up to the balls of his feet. Tim paused in his movements, arms falling down to his side as he glanced over his shoulder at Dick. 

Dick quickly made his way over, smile straining slightly when he caught the sight of a yellowish-brown bruise on Tim’s pale wrist. Dick could remember the feeling of thin bones almost creaking under his hand when the kid started talking clinically, something in his voice just reminding him unpleasantly of Bruce.

_ God _ , the kid really hadn’t deserved that.

So he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve the wary eye the kid was giving him. Dick slowed to a stop in front of him, smile edging as close as he could to friendly without scaring him away.

Tim slowly rose up to his full height, all 4’9 of him. 

He’s a pretty kid, Dick’ll admit that. Soft cheeks, long lashes, little rose petal lips that were pressed into a thin line as he stared at Dick, with blue eyes so deep they were almost black. But god his  _ hair _ .

Is that what kids considered fashionable nowadays?

Ew. Dick cringed at his thought. He almost reminded himself of Bruce.

“...Hi.” Tim offered slowly, face twitching slightly like it pained him to be the first to say anything. Which Dick could see being true, Bruce already had pages upon pages of background on the kid by the time he hacked into it, and all of them indicated the kid was a bit of a lone wolf.

A lot like Jason had been. 

Dick clenched his fists at the thought.

Tim immediately took a step back, eyes alight with suspicion with his hands tensed at his side like he had to be ready for Dick to go off the rails.

It knocks the wind straight out of his sails.

Fuck.

“Kid-” Dick began, hands raised placatingly.

“Tim.” He quickly corrected.

“Tim.” Dick repeated. “Tim I...I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Tim’s brows furrowed slightly, nose scrunching a bit like a bunny’s. It was enough to have Dick’s head filling with coos like he was thinking this kid was a pet and not a clever little shit that had thrown a hard fist into his lower gut to escape. It was close enough to his groin Dick could still feel the throbbing pulsing  _ way too  _ close to his package for comfort.

The kid fought dirty and Dick couldn’t help but approve.

“You didn’t scare me.” Tim replied, mouth turned down sourly. 

Dick rose a brow. The retreat said otherwise. But he’d dealt with Bruce enough to know when not to push things.

Tim shifted on his feet, eyes looking anywhere but at Dick.

“I...I need to apologize to you too.” He began. 

Dick’s brows rose even higher.

“I was too callous to you- during our meeting.” Tim quickly elaborated. “I brought up things I shouldn’t have about your….your parent-.” Tim cut off quickly, mouth closing shut as his forehead scrunched in discomfort. 

Dick could feel the same feeling swirling in his stomach, already knowing what was going to come next.

“I...I’m sorry…”

Dick bit back a grimace.  _ ‘I’m sorry for your loss’, ‘I’m sorry for your parents’, ‘I’m sorry for you _ ’.

“...you shouldn’t have had to see it.”

Dick startled. Tim was glaring at the ground, hands fisted in front of him, uncomfortably wringing at the end of his training shirt. His little nails were tugging at loose threads with sharp pinches as he still refused to meet Dick’s gaze.

“ _ Losing them _ ,” Tim managed to get out through a tensed jaw, “was hard enough I-you... _ you shouldn’t have had to see it. _ ”

Tim said it with so much concentrated anger Dick could practically feel how indignant the kid felt on his behalf.

“I’m-I’m just...sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Dick...didn’t know what to say to that. The kid was  _ upset _ , so genuinely remorseful he couldn’t help but feel like there was something  _ more  _ there.

_ He was there _ . 

Dick suddenly recalled their words from a week ago. What confirmed Batman’s identity, the quadruple flip- Tim had been there. He’d seen.

Dick stepped closer, laying a gentle hand on the kids shoulder, only when he touched him did he realize he was trembling. Using his thumb to stroke softly against the soft skin of Tim’s neck he felt his mouth opening before he could stop it.

“I’m sorry too.”

_ I’m sorry I saw it. I’m sorry you saw it. I’m sorry we were both there that night. _

Dick’s parents were gone, that would never change. 

The memory of that night would always be there.

That too would never change.

\----

Tim is by far one of Batman’s best students. It’s not because he was the strongest, that was Jason. Or the most quick on his feet and limber, that was Dick.

No. 

Tim was Batman’s best student because Tim knew himself. He knew exactly what he needed, in the amount he needed it, and the best way to get it. 

He was small and light. Smaller than Jason was when he’d arrived at the manor. Lighter than Dick who was a professional acrobat and had to be to be thrown and caught hundreds of feet in the air.

When Tim punched someone it wouldn’t do enough damage to knock them down. He physically couldn’t generate enough force to actually hurt someone. On the other hand for him, one bad punch, one good hit and he would be down. All it would take was someone big enough and they could dole out some serious damage. 

Batman couldn’t train Tim the same way he trained the others. Something Tim seemed incredibly aware of.

“I’m not going to grow much bigger once I hit puberty.” Tim offered to him matter-of-factly one afternoon. They were in the garden gazebo at the manor having lunch. Some baked pot pie dish for Bruce and a seared slice of salmon with a hot lemon sauce drizzle and plenty of tomatoes for Tim.

“Jack is less than the average height for an adult American male, and so is Janet- I wouldn’t hold my breath for me to grow bigger than 5”7 but not any smaller than 5”5. The point is I’m going to be going up against larger opponents my whole life.”

Bruce chose to ignore that last part and the little voice in his head that argued about how Tim was only supposed to be temporary.

Bruce nodded as he delicately dug his knife into the center of the pie, feeling the hot steam waft over his nose as he broke the flaky crust. 

Ah chicken. He’d been hoping for beef.

“I need to focus my efforts on evasion and possible long distance combat. You and I both know that I’m not going to be able to be a heavy hitter on this team.” 

_ That _ , Bruce notes with interest, is something that bothers Tim. He’s read through Tim’s former sensei’s letter and broken into the dojo to scan through his progress records.

The problem isn’t Tim. He has the technique down pat and the drive to put in the hours and hours of training (given that his name was the most often listed for the private tatami room rentals).

But it’s his body, no matter the training you have there’s just no overcoming physical limitations. It’s the same reason Bruce will never win in a battle of strength against Superman.

But wits on the other hand.

Tim knows exactly where the usefulness of his fists end- but his mind. Bruce has seen his meticulously kept records on the other members of the Justice League, on Nightwing and the Titans, on  _ him _ .

Tim might have the most accurate and reliable file on Batman in the world, aside from Ra’s Al Ghul.

He’s seen the breakdowns of his patrol, the encoded notebook he still hasn’t broken but suspects contains names and lists of contacts throughout Gotham. Because no little boy, no matter how small and quick, manages to slink throughout Gotham (at night no less) without some kind of insurance.

“So what would you suggest?” Bruce asks. Asks. A couple weeks into his tenure and Tim’s run as Robin is already more of a partnership than the one he’d had with Dick and Jason.

Batman had always been the one calling the shots and Robin following. Until he didn’t and then everything just went down from there. 

“Different teachers, styles, techniques- the more I know, the more I can do, the more I can counter.”

Bruce nods slowly, spooning carrots and peas into his mouth. That had been exactly his reasoning when he’d started.

“Canary is a master martial artist who specializes in grapples and quick takedowns.” 

Tim shakes his head, mouth filled with tomatoes and ignoring his salmon once again.

“Canary is a meta, her technique and foundations are solid but I can’t match her- there’s a reason metas only mentor other metas.”

Bruce nods in agreement. He knew metas were...hardier than non-metas. Their skin was thicker, bones denser. They could take a hell of a beating and walk away with nothing but a few bruises. If Bruce, Dick, Roy, or Ollie tried the same they’d be on R&R for weeks.

The list of non-meta martial artists was short. The list that would accept a student and not kill them was even shorter. The list that would take on a student of  _ Batman _ was practically nonexistent.

Tim’s gaze on him seemed to say he knew his request was going to be a difficult one.

“Robin needs to return to the field, but not so soon that we cut corners during training.” Tim offered, fork poking at the soft pink meat of his fish. “But I can’t exactly strap weights to my legs and run a thousand laps around Gotham.”

Tim’s lips curled up slightly, eyes blinking with humor like he was making a joke.

Bruce blinked.

“I’ll start compiling a list of candidates.” 

The conversation almost becomes a distant memory with everything that happened afterward. Bane, the Clench, the quake, Tim’s parents and Obeah Man.

The two never really talk about it- about Shiva or how their original plans with Tim’s tour in Paris went a bit off the rails.

Tim’s reports are detailed, sitting in a file on the Batcomputer waiting for Bruce to read through them, to learn the details and all the small things that went on when he wasn’t around to see them.

He knows they are because Tim’s report and analysis on Jean-Paul Valley had been invaluable to his strategy to knock him out of the position for Batman. 

Bruce can see it. In the hardened core and lithe muscles in Robin’s form when they spar. 

Tim’s style of fighting is so distinct in unique, Bruce can see where he’s pulled from all the masters, him, and Dick have taught him. 

Bruce never needed another soldier, not after Jason. He could see that Tim had no intentions to be one either. 

Because Tim could follow orders, could do recon, cover ops, and investigations. Tim was one of his most reliably consistent allies, able to match Bruce- raise and lower himself to his level with an ease that no other partner he’d had was able. 

And he made Bruce go prematurely grey.

Tim made liberal use of his Robin shurikens, taking to them like they were second nature. Not that they were because Bruce could always see Tim religiously watching the weather report just before they went out on patrol. Every night like clockwork he worked out wind speeds, took into account tailwinds and severe weather which could affect his shots. 

It’s the kind of dedication Ollie probably took with him in Star City when shooting off his little arrows.

Bruce had spotted notebooks lying open with trigonometry about trajectories down to the last decimal. 

Tim favored them and the use of ultra thin razor wire to capture, trap, and take down his opponents from the shadows. 

Tim made saboteur his speciality. 

He had backup plans for his backup plans- Bruce knows he did.

Yet he still insisted on jumping into the fray. Leaping off fire escapes and landing on the backs of muggers, rapists, and criminals with no regard for the shock impacts to his knees and ankles. 

He used a bo-staff to extend his reach and used its blunt ends to knock into throats and cocks like that was what Shiva had drilled him on. Bruce read the report and it wasn’t, in fact she’d heavily stressed the advantage of being underestimated for his size and looks.

Bruce knew that Tim had the techniques and knowledge to crack bone and deliver devastating beat downs on all their collars.

It’s that he prefered to fight dirty with them. 

He spit in eyes while breaking up ally brawls, used his little fingernails to dig into the soft and sensitive flesh of their eyes. He scratched, ripped, and bit, even going as far as to draw blood.

Bruce couldn’t count the amount of Gotham thugs he’d left for the GCPD with chunks of hair ripped out of their heads courtesy of the boy wonder. 

Tim fought...like them. Picking up broken bottles and rusty pipes and meeting them all on their level- fighting them on their terms.

It was strangely honorable despite the appearance of him rolling and yowling like a feral cat.

Because Tim saved every inch of his skills and abilities for the rogues. 

Poison Ivy, Joker, Two-Face, Black Mask, even Kite-Man (that’d been a brutal one).

But Scarecrow was like a lightning rod for Tim’s distaste. 

Bruce knew all of his Robins had Rogues they’d disliked if not hated more than they did the others.

Jason’s had been Joker. Dick’s had been Two-Face.

Tim’s was Scarecrow.

Bruce wasn’t sure why. It seemed like a mixed bag of things.

The name, the gimmick, the motivation behind his actions. Bruce suspected there was also some past trauma associated with him, perhaps he’d been one of the unfortunate citizens who’d been exposed to fear gas before.

All Bruce knew was that he watched Robin closer than usual when it was one of Scarecrow’s plots they were foiling.

Because it wasn’t so much anger for Robin so much as it was  _ disgust _ .

Something about standing in Scarecrow’s dimly lit labs, rescuing his sobbing and screaming test subjects- it did something to Tim- put him in the kind of tunnel vision head space it put Bruce into whenever he dealt with the Joker.

When the fight was over and Crane was tied at their feet, the same routine played out again and again. Bruce almost tried to stop it the first time it happened, but hadn’t had enough cause to justify stopping Robin.

Crane sat, bound and gagged, a pile of bruises at Batman’s feet and forced to watch as Robin destroyed his new lab. 

Smashing glass beakers, ripping up research notes, knocking over carts of duds and dumping out chemicals into waste buckets to be disposed of by the chemical company already on their way.

It wasn’t for satisfaction- Batman knew that. Robin got no joy from doing the extra few minutes of destruction following Crane’s arrest. 

Batman could see it in the line of his shoulders and tension in his jaw as he used his staff to sweep a line of graduated cylinders, flasks, and crucibles to the ground. A bunsen burner was ripped out of it’s access to a line of gas, the rubber tubing sliced to shreds with a shuriken.

Crane made agitated sounds at Batman’s feet. The first time, Batman had to plant a foot on his back to keep him from squirming up and trying to choke Robin out. 

His yells about expensive equipment and the cost of stealing them almost drowned out the shattering of glass as Robin played baseball with some watch glasses. It was entirely the reason he was the first and only one of Batman’s rogues to get consistently gagged. 

It took a few minutes before Robin finished and was back to Batman’s side, hefting up Scarecrow or “Jonathan” as Robin insisted on calling all Rogues by their real names.

“You’ll pay for this little bird-” Crane muttered, or rather muffled with it sounding more like “-ll ‘ay or his hiddle hir.”

Of course Robin easily ignored him, half walking and then dragging when Crane wasn’t walking fast enough. 

Tim was demanding like that.

“I’ll wait for the chem tank trucks at the loading dock, you watch Jonathan.” Robin offered as soon as they were outside.

He barely waited for a response before shooting a line to the roof.

Tim never stayed alone with Scarecrow, never offered to drop him off to Gordon like he did with others. Because he knew, and he knew that Batman knew- that he might not control himself around him.

Batman’s sure Scarecrow was completely unaware of just how much a favor Robin was doing him by leaving him to Batman. By always letting Batman be the one to turn him in.

Because Robin knew himself.

\----

Superboy didn’t like Robin when they first worked together. 

Didn’t like how he always assumed the leadership position, giving commands to the rest of the team like he was just the de facto in charge.

Robin was more of a den mother than Red Tornado was- pushing things like meals before missions, debriefs, and mission reports.

That was all Bat stuff and Robin was needling it like they were going to get some grand prize for remembering what color socks the villain of the day was wearing. 

At the team’s conception there was the tendency to butt heads over command positions. Not made easier when their team of three gained another three members in the form of Wonder Girl, Secret, and Arrowette. 

The team already had Batman and the Justice League breathing down their necks. They hardly needed another problem with deciding who was going to be top dog.

Though Superboy vouched for himself. It’s a problem that more often than not led to him pushing his face in close to Robin when trying to argue his point about why he should be in charge for the mission.

“You know,” Robin offered when Superboy pressed his nose up against the other’s, “the last time someone came in this close just to yell at me, he ended up kissing me.”

Superboy recoiled, feet pushing off the ground and floating back to a safe distance.

“I don’t wanna kiss you!”

Robin smirked, the annoying little quirk of his lips that made him look like a cocky bastard. Secret absolutely swooned over it.

“That’s some pretty firm denial you have going on there- you sure? I’m told I’m rather pretty.” 

Kon flushed red.

The asshole had the audacity to swoop one of his bangs back like those hot cheerleaders he saved from having their bus drive off a bridge the other day.

Impulse was watching, fascinated, eyes bouncing like a ball in a ping pong match, looking between them. The rest of the team was with him, the girls either watching in avid interest or snickering.

Kon spluttered, half choked out responses getting caught in his throat as he tried glaring at the white’s of Robin’s domino and the annoyingly pink flush of his lips. God, weren’t dudes supposed to be not-pretty?

“I’m y-you’re y-you you!” Kon finally managed to force out, finger pointing at Robin who tilted his head in question. “You are the most annoying- little-  _ sheesh, gosh _ \- bastard!”

Robin froze, brows rising enough to be visible behind his domino. Black, okay so Bart was wrong and that was definitely his hair and not a wig.

The silence stretched between them, Kon frozen in his pointing and Robin just standing there.

Standing there and...not saying anything. Kon glanced at the others, seeing their matching confusion- okay so he hadn’t crossed some kind of social, invisible line then.

Robin’s lips curled up, smirk tugging at his mouth- he looked, if it were possible, happy. Like Kon had just handed him a surprise Christmas gift a day early.

“Well if that’s the way you feel then I guess we’ll see just how well you handle being in charge for today,  _ dobe _ .” Robin began, mouth still curled with the edges of amusement like he’d just served one of the biggest burns of the century.

“Wha-! That’s barely even an insult!”

\----

Stephanie liked Robin, liked him enough to poke around at him. Prodding in all the ways she knew people found annoying just to see him hike up like a cat whose fur had been rubbed the wrong way.

Because that was the thing- Steph was good at stuff like that, getting people annoyed and huffy around her. It was a natural talent.

Only Robin was immune. No matter how close she leaned into his personal space or pressed up against him during a stakeout. He brushed her off a lot of the time, pushing away wandering hands and stepping out of her reach when she tried to touch him.

She’d think he was annoyed if he ever said anything, told her to buzz off or leave him alone.

For a while she wondered if it was because he secretly liked it- he wasn’t chatty. The furthest thing from it actually. Getting him to talk to her was like ripping out teeth and even then it was mostly grunts. Hnn this and Hgh that.

Hanging around someone like Batman she couldn’t imagine someone got much exposure to know any different.

She wondered if they communicated with grunts. 

Instead of saying  _ ‘Robin take down that loser wearing a Metropolis Meteors jersey!’  _ they clicked and let out a Hnn.

Spoiler snickered at the thought and pretended to whistle when Robin glanced at her, a slight furrow between his brow that meant he could tell she was pulling her bullshit again. 

The two of them returned to silence, settling back to watch a street corner where some drug deal was supposed to take place with one of Robin’s targets.

Robin’s hands drifted to the weapons pouch secured around his thigh, finger flicking open the tab and settling on the stacks of yellow ‘R’ shurikens.

Man when these capes got into a gimmick they really stuck to it.

Not that Steph had any ground to stand on, she's already made her own Spoiler fan t-shirts for the express purpose of wearing them out in public. Not that anyone ever recognized her insignia.

Which made sense, she wasn’t exactly a big name or even really a respected vigilante, focusing most of her effort on Cluemaster. Or ‘Arthur’ as Robin insisted on calling him. Which was probably one of the many weird things about him

“Spoiler.” 

Steph startled, shifting slightly on her heels from where she crouched to glance over at Robin who was still croached in the shadow of the building, lithe body almost molded to the edge. She still wondered how he did that.

“Uh y-yeah?”

Robin’s lips pursed, hand pressing against the concrete roof they were kneeling on.

“I need you to go ahead to the roundabout on Mercer Street, we’re going to cut them off.”

Stephanie stilled. 

“What?”

“Mercer Street.” Robin replied. “Joan’s Hardware store has the best scouting spot, wait for my signal and then get the drop on them.” 

Stephanie stared.

Robin’s gaze stayed on her, the domino obscuring the full view of his pretty-boy face but not making the stare any less intense.

“You can do it. I trust you.”

Not ‘believe’ or ‘think’. Trust.

Another big thing with Robin. Trust and not leaving her behind even when she jumped into some ally fight with six people and no plan.

She felt a grin begin pulling at her lips, knees unbending to rise to her feet.

“You got it big boss!” 

She turned already leaping onto the neighboring rooftop. 

She didn’t have the recognition or respect from much of the people of Gotham.

But she had his.

\----

Her little brother was quiet. 

That is what Cassandra first realizes about him. He’s quiet, skirting the edge of the room, taking careful steps on the floorboards in order to make the least amount of noise.

He’s quiet, highly skilled, enjoys tea, and is very lonely.

His hands are rough with training, scars on his knuckles and palms thick with callouses. Cassandra’s were similar. But the two of them did not earn them the same way. Where Cassandra was forced, head first into the mud. Timothy jumped. 

She’d heard from Nightwing the circumstances of him joining Batman’s crusade- of a skinny little boy shoving himself in and getting the Batman to bend for him somehow.

And now he was her brother.

Cassandra laid a soft hand on the crown of Tim’s head, ruffling the hair gently in what she hoped conveyed her affection. Tim’s eyes rose to meet hers, gaze pulled away from a thick book about old art in a country far away in a language she couldn’t speak.

“Little brother.” She murmured lowly, fingers drifting down to touch the soft skin of his wrinkled forehead.

Tim froze, his eyes shooting up to meet hers.

Cassandra’s hand recoiled, stepping back slightly like she’d just stepped on the tail of a kitten.

The look Tim gave her was absolutely  _ gutted _ .

Cass watched as he curled into himself, the edges of him raw like the exposed nerves of a fresh wound.

Cassandra reached for him, fingers curling into the loops of his belt, tugging at the soft fabric of his sweater.

“Little brother-” She murmured, voice still tick and words loose with disuse. “Little brother.”

Cass curled slowly around him, careful not to spook him as she brought him in closer. She wondered if he would find comfort in her holding him. Her muscles were strong, thick and prominent. A testament to how she could protect him, protect him from the pain.

Her little brother trembled in her hold, little shivers trailing down his back as his head was tucked into her shoulder. 

His eyes were wide, pupils huge like an animal scouting for danger.

His body was loose, pliable, giving too easy into her. Timothy gave nothing easily.

Cassandra was at a loss. Her little brother was with her but at the same time wasn’t. She could hear low, barely audible murmurs from him, muffled by her jacket that he was pressed to.

She listened to the little sounds, following the intonations with her ears, mouth forming them silently.

Ah , kni, qui

Ah, knee, qui

A, knee, ki

A, ni, ki

It is not one of the words Cassandra recognizes, she is still learning and cannot place it. There’s an accent- so not of English origin. But her brother is murmuring it, low and with the pain of a wounded animal.

‘A, ni, ki’ 

Cass mouths the words, following the sounds being breathed by her brother against her neck.

‘A, ni, ki’

Cassandra mouths the words until the trembling has stopped, until her Timothy is no longer shaking and resting tensed against her body like a spring trap.

“Cass-” he cuts off.

Cassandra lets him shake, feels him settle more comfortably in her hold. His back is still strict with discomfort that comes along with not being accustomed to being held.

From what Nightwing has told her, Timothy was not held much.

“Little brother.” Cassandre murmurs, quietly. Pressing the words to the soft fat of Timothy’s cheek. She feels him tense under her hands once more before settling.

Cassandra’s little brother was quiet. 

Quiet and hurting.

\----

Dick watched Damian march away from the training mats in seething resentment, shoulders arched so high in offense they were nearly at his ears. 

Dick watched for only another moment before turning back to Tim, a fresh towel ready to replaced the soggy red one already pressed to his nose.

“Ih waz a goo hit.” Tim offered, mouth muffled by the terry cloth.

“ _ Tim _ .” Dick couldn’t help but sigh exasperated. “Why didn’t you call the match? Why did you let him keep going?”

Because Dick is honestly baffled. Tim baffles him.

On one hand he hasn’t bothered to hide his mutual dislike for Damian but on the other hand will let him beat his face to a bloody pulp during what was supposed to be a friendly spar.

He was honestly wondering if the younger boy had some kind of masochistic streak. Bricked in the face by Spoiler and she’s a fast friend. Manhandled by Dick and he’s his new brother.

He can’t even begin to imagine what the other boy feels towards Jason.

“He’s a kid filled with a lot of anger at the world.” Tim shrugged. “I was a lot like him when I was a kid too.”

Dick couldn’t have held back the snort if someone had a gun to his head. Because  _ Tim _ ?

Tim was a lot of things but never in a million years would Dick level Damain’s hairdbredth temper to Tim’s.

Tim sent Christmas cards to his barber, mailman,  _ and  _ waiter at his favorite restaurant. Tim dressed like an old man and acted like one in the winter.

He shotgunned green tea like it was going out of fashion.

Tim stared at him from over the screen of his computer, blood soaked towel pulled away from his face and dumped on the floor.

“I was told I was a very thick headed child.”

Dick thinks that’s probably the truest statement that’s ever been said in the cave. Tim’s butted heads with Batman.  _ Batman _ . And he’s come out on top.

Dick’s not sure what you could call that aside from sheer bullheadedness.

But they weren’t talking about Tim’s skull density so Dick sighed and knelt to his younger brother’s side, gently gripping his chin and patting at the new stream of blood flowing out of his nose.

“Okay, but next time- make sure there’s someone here to proctor your match.”

Preferably him or Bruce because if it were Jason he’d just film it and send it to all his friends.

\----

“Father,” Damian began, eyes already shining with a defensive light. “I swear I am not causing mischief.”

Bruce finds that pretty hard to believe considering Damian is in Tim’s room, his private room- that he almost always kept locked. Bruce has only been inside a handful of times, the most recent of which was because he spotted the light under the door and he knew Tim was working late at Wayne Enterprises.

Damian was crouched at Tim’s desk, his multi colored files that were kept neatly in an organizer were spread around the room.

Bruce knew how twitchy Tim got about messes and could already feel the headache his room’s state would bring him.

“Damian.”

Bruce breathed slowly through his nose, mentally counting to five in swedish.

“Why are you in Tim’s room?”

Better to just nip it in the bud. Damian had no higher ground to retreat to, he was caught red handed doing something he shouldn’t be doing by the highest authority that he recognized in the house.

Damian stayed silent for several moments, his glare severe as his small jaw worked, his mind probably weighing the pros and cons of lying to Batman.

“Drake.” Damian began, mouth curled in displeasure and spitting the name out like it was poison.

Bruce felt a frown already begin forming at his lips.

“Drake crafted a homemade offering for Titus on his birthday.”

Bruce felt the frown disappear, instead replaced by confusion.

“Titus has been remarkably more well behaved when given these... _ treats _ as a reward.”

Bruce couldn’t even begin to guess where this was going.

“However...he recently misbehaved and consumed them all in a single sitting and he is now...weeping.”

So that’s what that sound from the backyard was. Bruce had thought it was Dick trying to give the clarinet a second shot.

“So I am searching for the formula so as to alleviate Titus of his suffering and ensure his continued service.”

“You broke into Tim’s room to look for a dog treat recipe?”

“Yes.”

“...Have you asked Alfred.”

“Pennyworth knows nothing! It is a secret known only to Drake who learned it from a previous master of his!”

Were these the dog treats Clark said Krypto went ‘gaga’ over? He recalled Tim wrapping several gifts for Christmas one of which included a single small package for Krypto to be express mailed alongside Connor and the Kent’s.

“Have you tried asking your brother?”

“Drake is no brother of mine!”

Bruce sighed, fingers smoothing the deeply formed ridge between his brow as he did.

“Damian.” He began. “If you want something and Tim is the only one who can give it to you, you’re going to have to ask him for it.”

Damian stared at him, expression sour.

“And you’re going to have to be  _ nice  _ about it.”

“We shall see my level of desperation in a few days.” Damian steady worked around the edge of the room, slipping past Bruce with a murmured departure of “Father.”

Bruce turned back to look at the room and spread out files. He took a steadying breath and set himself to work.

**

It’s two days later when Bruce wanders down from his room late in the afternoon and stumbles across the sight of Tim and Damian in Alfred’s aprons working side by side with each other as they formed soft japanese rice balls around fragrant fillings. 

“-They’re good for joint strength and support something that’s especially important if they’re running long distances or in Titus’s case carrying the weight of their body.” 

Bruce could hear Tim’s low voice softly monologuing to Damian as he was savagely mashing soft rice with both his hands.

“Are you implying that Titus is  _ fat _ ?” Damian asked, voice dangerous.

Bruce watched from the doorway as Tim slowly shook his head, his long hair coasting along his shoulders like a delicate wave.

“Not at all. Titus is very healthy for his age and breed.”

Damian scoffed, eyes rolling as he returned to mashing in his bowl.

“Of course he is, I raised him from a pup to the familiar he is now.” Damian’s voice was filled with pride, nose turned up with the slightest smile tugging at his lips.

Bruce could tell what was coming before Tim even opened his mouth.

“And Alfred?”

Damian’s expression immediately soured, his head whipping to face Tim who didn’t offer the same courtesy.

“I thought I had told you to stay away from him!”

Tim shrugged.

“I can’t help it if he approaches me.”

“He is  _ my  _ cat!” Damian hissed, doing a good imitation of the animal in question. “I know you are performing some trickery to seduce him!”

Tim shrugged and Bruce knew that was false. Cats loved Tim, even some of Selina’s strays preferred him. Well if he didn’t try to take their pawprints. Bruce had seen the book once, wandering into Tim’s room while he was sick with a nasty flu. The book was open on the desk, fresh ink still drying on the page and Alfred the cat still lying in the crook of Tim’s arms, his pink paw streaked black.

Damian growled muttering under his breath.

“I raised him from a kitten- bathed him, nursed him and then what does he do? He chooses you, rests in your chair and arms,  _ feeds from your hand- _ ”

Bruce could see the smallest smile tugging at the corners of Tim’s mouth.

“I’d no idea I’d raised such a-such a  _ whore _ .”

Bruce’s brows quirked up the slightest bit, matching with Tim who was pouring out a thick paste like filling into a shallow dish.

Bruce let his gaze linger on the two a soft edge of relief flowing into him at the somewhat civilized interaction between them.

“Drake I am done mashing, pass the filling.”

Bruce’s relief lasted all of a few seconds before disappearing when the large rice bowl was moved revealing the sight of Damian’s hands chained together and to the table as he started rolling the thick paste into similar sized balls.

\----

“Are you ready?”

“For me to marvel at your pathetic skills?”

“It’s a yes or no Damian, you didn’t have to agree.”

Damian scowled, baring his teeth at Drake as they both settled in the center of the mats, training swords in hand.

“It was for Titus! I’ve no idea why you insist on passing onto me your mediocre knowledge on swordsmanship- I am already quite skilled in the katana!”

“Well I’m not trying to teach you about the katana, this is a chokuto.”

Drake held the sword tucked near his side out. It’s a real one, one with a blade and not the training swords they’re holding. Not that it matters, Damian stashed his katana in the cave the night before in case Drake decided to take the opportunity to assassinate him and Damian was left with nothing to defend himself but a wood lacquered sword.

Damian scoffed.

“You do not even employ the use of a sword.”

“No.” Drake agreed, laying the chokuto to rest against a training bench. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use it.”

“So then why not use it? Scared?” Damian mocked. Drake pursed his lips and Damian felt a shot of satisfaction that he was getting to him.

The older boy was startlingly difficult to bother, Brown and the Clone were the only ones able to garner a consistent reaction from him.

Damian was pretty sure it was because of Drake’s split sexual attraction for them.

Caught between his attraction to the Clone’s maleness and Brown’s personality and oddly enough her hair. As if the Clone couldn’t just dye his, he’s pretty sure Brown already did.

Drake heaved a quiet sigh, his head shaking like he was reconsidering teaching Damian. Which was ridiculous as he had requested to teach Damian in exchange for learning the formula for Titus’s treats.

“Three things,” Drake began, “One, you’re going to grow to be taller than me and the chokuto is suited for people of a certain stature, had I wished to use a sword I would go for a tanto.”

Drake began slowly disrobing, removing his top and leaving him in loose fitting training pants. Damian could see the scar from when he lost his spleen searching for Damian’s father on full display.

“Two, masters of an art have an innate desire to pass on their talents. I can’t use these skills but I have them nonetheless through a variety of circumstances which don’t matter and I wish to pass them to you.”

Drake is likely referring to his year away from Gotham, it’s a time which several parties are still not sure of the full details.

“Three, I don’t trust myself with a sword.”

Damian stopped.

“A sword is at its core a lethal weapon, it takes careful control to make sure it’s not used for such. I don’t have that control, you do.”

Damian stared.

“Are you mocking me?” He asked, voice low and raspy and trying to cover the hurt flooding his chest.

“No.” Drake denied.

“You are!” 

Damian leapt from his position, sword already raised before being met by a block by Drake’s.

“ _ Damian _ .” Tim stressed. “I’m not mocking you.”

“Liar!” Damian screamed. “I know what you think of me! What you all think of me! How you call me a demon baby and a wannabe murderer! I hear Brown and Todd’s conversations!”

“ _ Damian _ !”

Damian froze, his stance frozen as Drake glared down at him with intense eyes. 

“I  _ don’t  _ think that of you.”

Damian swallowed around the choking lump in his throat.

“When I said I wanted to teach you because you have the control to not let it go so far I meant it.”

“But Brown and Todd-”

“I never said anything like that about you.” Drake replied, dark eyes on Damian, not looking away not so much as blinking. “Because you’re not a demon.”

Damian stuttered.

“I have seen demons, Damian.” Drake continued, shoulders loosening slightly almost slumping. “And you’re not one, you’re just a boy.”

Damian stepped back, sword falling to his side in a loose grip. Drake mirrored his actions.

“Now. Are you ready?”

\----

The replacement was a character that was for sure. He was like a mini-Bruce with all his few words and placid demeanor. Jason would’ve thought Bruce grew him in the garden or something if not for the fact that he was nothing like Bruce.

Bruce could hold a grudge like bitch.

The replacement found Jason bleeding out on some random fire escape and whisked him into his home, his actual home where he ate, bathed, slept, and fucked.

And Jason had tried to kill him. More than once. Jason pointing that out didn’t even do much.

“Lots of people have tried to kill me.” Tim shrugged, fabric scissors cutting away at part of Jason’s uniform to free up a burn wound. “None of them succeeded.”

“Yeah well most of them aren’t your formerly-dead kind of brother.”

Tim used tweezers to pick out glass from small cuts.

“I got over it, it was years ago.”

“You got over it.” Jason repeated. Tim pushed Jason’s head back, tilting it to rest on the soft pillow of his rich-boy sofa. Jason’s going to bleed all over his rich-boy sofa and carpet.

“Yeah.”

A soft cooling balm was being spread over the largest of Jason’s burns. It was nice, way nicer than fucking lidocaine.

“ _ Christ _ replacement, what is this?” 

Jason let his head tilt back the rest of the way, eyes nearly slipping closed at the instant numbing and relief seeping into his seared flesh. 

_ God _ , last goddamn time he uses one of Roy’s homemade grenades. Jason’ll stick to robbing the military supply depot on occasion.

Tim began wrapping wet clothes with the thick smell of medicine clinging to them around Jason’s wounds.

“Special ointment, picked it up from...from a good friend.”

“Some friend,” Jason murmured, feeling small shivers trail down his spine, head light but aware enough to feel his surroundings.

One thing he always hated about painkillers and anesthesia was the lack of awareness.

“Yeah.” Tim murmured lowly. “She was...really really great.”

Oooo there was a story there, Jason could smell it. Probably one with hot, intense sex- likely hate/it’s complicated fucking if he was reading the lightest tone of wistfulness in the replacement’s voice right.

Who’dve thought the Batclan prude had done the dirty, nasty deed.

“What were you doing out there anyway? Kramer Street isn’t on your patrol route.”

Of course he knew that, the little freak.

“I was following up a tip on Crane.”

“Jonathan?” Tim asked, nose scrunching up.

Oh yeah, the replacement had a complex about him or something. Jason had seen it once. Stood silent as Tim smashed and lit Crane’s latest lab on fire. He was almost impressed. 

“He’s been stockpiling some chemicals ‘ccording to Ace Chemical’s latest report.”

Tim pursed his lips.

“We never found his last lab from back in the winter.”

Jason nodded, light humor almost instantly disappearing. 

“If that’s we’re they’re going that means there’s probably vats of fear toxin just fucking sitting somewhere waiting for the next Arkham break.”

Tim scowled, the fierce displeasure scrunching up his pretty little face.

“Can’t believe they don’t just fill their cells in with concrete and leave it at that-” Tim muttered lowly under his breath. Jason’s brows rose because yeah Jason made his stance on Arkham inmates pretty clear but the replacement-

“Do you have any other leads?”

Jason lifted his head slightly, pushing himself up on his elbows as he did.

“I mean yeah but the latest tip got me pumped full of lead, blown up and nearly turned into a grilled swiss cheese sandwich.”

Tim grimaced, eyes looking down the length of Jason’s body.

“How long before you’ll be street ready?”

“Few weeks for top shape, few days for mediocre.”

Tim nodded slowly, eyes processing the information and probably working it into a plan with the big brain of his.

“We go after Jonathan in three weeks.”

Yet another thing that the replacement shared with Bruce, they both just invited themselves into Jason’s cases.

**

In the end Jason gets about two weeks of healing time before Arkham’s security falls for about half an hour before Oracle has it back up and running. Arkham’s headcount takes fifteen minutes and by the end of it eleven inmates are missing, one of which is Dr. Jonathan Crane.

Jason and Tim scour the city, following every lead and every tip there is until it lands them in a warehouse that’s more rusted metal than building. The ceiling is slanted inwards and the walls are nearly crumbling rock. But it’s a factory that fits on top of an old mine shaft back from when Gotham was a coal town. The elevator works but is loud and creaky with cables so shaky they could snap at any second.

It drops them at the ground floor of a wide underground space that smells thickly of mildew and wet.

“I hate underground bases.” Tim murmurs, flashlight already out and pointed towards the spread shafts all around them. 

“Yeah,” Jason agreed, fingering his own light. “Never took Crane for a mole.”

“No. A snake.” Tim whispered back, hand stretched out to feel along the cave walls. “It’s big enough to store all those chemicals he was siphoning, that and the tracks-”

Tim pointed down to their feet.

“Miners used it to transport equipment, rock, and coal- with a map he could move any number of materials around Gotham without it being detected.”

“ _ Great _ .”

Just what they needed, for the Rogues to have unlimited access to any stretch of Gotham they wanted so long as a mine shaft connected it. The Mines connect to the sewage system at some points to connect all they’d need to do is knock down some metal grates.

“ _ Fuck _ this just got more complicated.”

Tim nodded at his side, cowl catching the light as he continued forward.

“We’re going to need to blow the tunnels- I didn’t bring enough explosives for a job this size- we’ll need to call in the others.”

_ “Even fucking better!” _

Yeah just what Jason needed, another reason for Bruce to butt into his business.

“I know you don’t like this- but it’s the best option.”

“Well I wouldn’t say that little bird.”

_ Crane _ .

Tim immediately tensed, back going ramrod straight as he immediately summoned his bo staff.

“Hood get behind me.”

Jason paused from where he was getting his guns out of their holsters. Replacement’s voice...

“Hood  _ I said to fucking get behind me. _ ”

Jason didn’t get a chance to say anything before Tim was grabbing his wrist in a bruising grip, pushing a leg against his ankle and forcing him to fall back against the mine walls, Tim standing tensely in front of him.

“ _ How _ .” Tim asked, voice thick and more fucking furious than anything Jason had heard from him ever. “How are you here.”

“Replace-”

“Shut up, Hood!” Tim spit back, back pressed so tightly to Jason’s front he could barely make enough space to move. Small he might be but the replacement was built like a brick fucking wall.

“Oh is the little bird frightened?” Crane mocking voice asked, crooning from the shadows. Jason grit his teeth, helmet scraping against the cave wall.

Helmet. His inbuilt rebreather. 

Tim’s reaction, his heavy breathing that can be both stress or the absence of oxygen.

Underground.

Crane was storing chemicals in a gaseous state underground that went months without maintenance.

Leaking.

The fear gas leaked into the mine shaft.

Tim breathed it in. Tim _ was still _ breathing it in.

Fuck.

“Red, the gas!”

Tim was taking deep, sucking breaths, his wheezing fully audible as he sifted on his feet, attention shifting to different areas of the pitch dark cave around them. Tim dropped his light reaching for his staff. Jason dropped his life getting shoved into a wall by Tim.

There was no way they were going to be able to see Crane coming.

“Scared little Robin?”

“Shut up!” Tim yelled into the dark, shoulder shaking, grip loose and trembling on his staff. “Fuck- you! S-s-shut up!”

“What are you hearing, I wonder?” Crane asked from somewhere to the left of them. Jason began clocking his unholstered gun.

“It’s the first time I’ve successfully made a gas to target a specific sense! The primary auditory cortex in your brain is absolutely misfiring right now.”

The bastard was way too gleeful.

“You and your  _ fucking  _ experiments.” Tim cursed under his breath, spittle flying from his mouth, the replacement looked like a goddamn rabid dog that was foaming at the mouth. 

“Hngsh- fuckin told you hghh, t-told you haahh hahhnn  _ I don’t _ -”

“Red?” Jason asked, eyes scanning along the cave walls, gun straight and pointed and waiting for Crane to open his mouth again. “I need you steady okay, you need to reach for your rebreather you’re sucking in fear gas, kid.”

Diluted gas but gas nonetheless, none of Crane’s experiments ever gave reactions this mild. Auditory illusions? No way was the gas just that.

“First your frontal lobe, then the p.c cortex, next will be the cerebellum-”

Jason shifted his stance, arm steadying as he locked onto the far corner of the mine- the dark alcove right beside the elevator they came down in.

“My legs.” Tim’s voice was suddenly grave, his earlier shivers now full out trembles. “C-Can’t m-move my legs.” Tim’s voice was lower almost down into a whisper as he let out quickening grunts of effort. 

Jason steadied his hand, visualizing Crane’s scrawny body in his mind, measuring the distance and adjusting for a non-lethal shot.

“H-Hood you need to run, he only wants me h-he won’t chase you and I-I can’t  _ move _ .”

Jason curled his finger around the trigger.

“H...won’t hurt me much...j-jus my body...t-thas what h-he wan it-” 

Tim’s voice was shuddering with pure fear, his voice hitching as the thick sound of his throat filling up barely letting his words escape.

“O-oroc-”

Jason fired.

**

The thing about firing off a shot in a concealed space. It’s the sound ricocheting off the walls that really is the bitch. 

Jason is half deaf in his left ear as he drags both Tim and Crane up the elevator shaft, one fucker bleeding and knocked unconscious courtesy of Jason’s fists. The other is in Jason’s arms shaking and turning his head around like an owl, watching the walls like they’re alive. He’s talking too, murmuring something but it all sounds underwater to Jason.

At least he wasn’t as panicked as he was down in the mines, no hearing for that auditory fear gas to work would do that Jason supposed.

Still. Jason tightened his grip on Tim’s hips, keeping him close and away from the open door of the elevator leading to a several hundred foot drop. 

Jason rested his chin against the top of Tim’s cowl covered head, feeling him shift under his arms as he squirmed.

Jason made a list in his mind. 1. Kick the shit out of Crane before leaving him hogtied for Gordon. 2. Have Oracle send Nightwing and the others to blow the mines. 3. Give the kid the antitoxin 4. Get some antibiotic ear drops for their abused ears. 5. Calm the kid down.

The elevator reaches the top and Jason immediately sets to completing step 1, beating the shit out of Crane until he was satisfied to see one of his hands pointing the wrong way.

**

For a while it just falls out of Jason’s mind. Fear gas does things to people, makes them say and do things they normally wouldn’t.

Whenever one of them has to be pulled out of the haze, it’s an unspoken rule to not speak about what was said under duress and Jason is content to follow that unspoken rule.

Until he’s forced not to.

Ra’s Al Ghul is creep. With a weird obsession for Batman and Gotham, and apparently, more recently, Tim.

Jason and Tim are partnered together, taking the Bowery and Crime Ally to clear the area of Ra’s forces when he attempts another one of his takeovers. By then it’s clockwork, they’d all honestly been expecting one.

The previous years’ was skipped for obvious reasons of the lost-in-time sort. 

Ra’s has long since hacked their comms, his voice drooling out and negotiating with Bruce while the rest of Bats beat the league back.

Jason is barely paying attention- until Ra’s turns his attention to Tim.

“Now for the other Detective.” Ra’s purred, “I’ve not heard from you in so long.”

Tim remained silent, hands focused with beating his staff into the forehead of one of Ra’s ninja. Jason would’ve thought his comm was off if not for the slightest downturn of his lips.

“I hope you’ve reconsidered my offer- it was most generous if I do say so.”

“No, thank you.” Tim replied, voice oddly blank as he shoved a fist into the exposed throat of someone Jason threw his way. “I’ve learnt my lesson about following strange men who offer me things in exchange for my body.”

Jason  _ almost  _ stumbled. 

“ _ Well- _ ”

Ra’s voice cut off and Jason knew immediately that Bruce finally managed to shift comms channels as soon as one of his sons was addressed. Jason kicked a wobbling ninja off the roof and watched as they smashed into a shiny Lexus down below.

“Do you have to be so rough?” Tim asked coming up next to him to look down the side of the apartment building. “You know they don’t have insurance.”

This was why the babybird was his favorite, always with the deadpan humor that had delivery so flat he was equally as likely to not be joking.

If only Jason was in a joking mood. The mine with Crane, the thick fear in the baby bird’s voice that was just a touch too logical to be in the zone of deliriously hysterical fear gas usually sent it’s victims into. Ra’s words, Tim’s response.

It’s building the hints of a picture that Jason doesn’t like, implies things he doesn’t want to think about.

Jason glances at Tim lowering the face shield of his helmet.

“Baby-”

“It was a bad joke.”

That just about confirmed it.

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong- I shouldn't have said what I said.”

Tim was talking, it was the equivalent of babbling for him. It was his tell. When people were nervous they talked too much. When Tim was nervous he either clammed up or talked the same amount as normal people.

But Jason wasn’t about to push him- not on if he thought it was what he thought it was.

“Are you dealing with it?”

Tim pursed his lips, mouth opening slightly for a moment.

“I’ve been seeing someone about it.”

Jason paused.

“For how long.”

Tim sucked in a tired sigh.

“Three?”

“Three years?”

“Three years  _ old _ .”

“ _ Kid- _ ”

“I know.” Tim cut him off. “You don’t need to tell me I know.”

Jason stayed silent, watching as Tim shuffled slightly, tugging at his uniform and adjusting his tactile vest. 

“I’m...not better.”

“...But?”

Tim gave a considering look to the ninja on the ground, bending over and snatching the pack of kunai bulging out of one of their pockets.

“I think I’m getting...better. I-” Tim clicked his mouth shut.

Jason watched him, watched his jaw muscles flex and tense, clench and unclench.

“I talk to people. I ask for help.” Tim began. “I smile sometimes and I feel-” Tim trailed off. Not ready for the H-word. Yeah, Jason could relate.

“I have a family. I’m...not so scared anymore.”

Tim stepped up to stand on the ledge of the building.

“M-my parents are gone a-and my-”

Tim cut himself off.

“It all...the pain. It hurts but-”

Jason stepped up next to him, eyes steady as he gripped a loose hand, finger fitting around a thin wrist. Too thin, god the baby practically ate like a bird too.

“But?” He asked. Tim’s mouth flattened, the white of his cowl almost flickering in the streetlights as he tilted his head up to meet Jason.

“-I don’t feel like I’m dying anymore.”

Tim turned his head back to face the front, the Gotham skyline in the distance. Jason could see the flickering lights of people in their homes all going to sleep completely unaware of the barely avoided disaster being prevented. Jason thinks of the hard nights when it’s raining, snowing, hailing. The limited visibility and carrying heavy armor while working through the pain of injuries from the night before- all for this.

Jason rested his chin against the head of his brother standing by his side. 

“Yeah, baby bird.” Jason murmured. “We’re not dying anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anything this is more of a fic about Sasuke making peace with his pain: all it took was another life and access to early psychiatric help


End file.
